A tinkling bell announced my arrival at the Scottish Rose Tea Shoppe on Main Street. Emily Rose came out of the kitchen, looking fabulous in a cheery apple-embossed apron over black pants and sweater. Slim and sophisticated, she wore her straight dark hair wrapped up in an elegant twist, giving her the look of a beautiful young Audrey Hepburn. She was smart, too, with a wry sense of humor and a kind heart. Even though she was in her early forties, almost twelve years older than I, she was one of my dearest friends.
“Oh, Shannon, love,” she cried, taking both of my hands in hers. “I heard what that horrible man did to you. Let me get you some tea.”
I smiled at her idea of an all-purpose remedy. “Sounds perfect. And maybe a currant scone to go?”
“To go? No, no, you don’t,” she insisted, her Scottish brogue coming through. “You’ll stay and sit and enjoy yourself. The girls are all here for you, so go join them. Wait.” She grabbed a clean dish towel and handed it to me. “You’re glowing a bit.”
“You mean sweating?” I laughed and used the towel to pat down my still-damp face and neck. “Thanks.”
She pushed me toward the cozy back room, which was used for private parties. “I’ll bring some treats to you in a jiffy.”
Her words sank in. “The girls are all here?”
She glanced over her shoulder at me. “I rang them up when I saw you jog by earlier. I knew you’d have to come back this way eventually, so if you hadn’t stopped in we were planning to lasso you.”
I could listen to her talk all day long, even though it was occasionally necessary to ask her for a translation.
The tension in my neck loosened slightly as I realized my friends were circling the wagons on my behalf. I entered the back room and Lizzie sprang from her chair and grabbed me in a tight hug. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! It’s all my fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I murmured, patting her back to comfort her. She laid her head on my shoulder, or tried to, anyway. She was barely five foot one, but every inch of her was perky and vibrant. Her dark hair was cut in a short, sassy style with long bangs that emphasized her big eyes. She chose to wear monochromatic colors because she thought it made her appear taller. I loved her; I truly did. But I wouldn’t be going on another of her blind dates again.
“I feel so guilty.” She sniffled. “You could’ve really been hurt.”
She had no idea how right she was about that.
“Let her catch her breath, Lizzie,” Jane said.
“I will, I will. I’m just so upset about this and, oh, God, wait until Hal finds out. He’ll track Jerry down and punch his lights out.”
“Tell him not to bother for my sake,” I said. “I already took care of it.”
“And good for you! Did you really kick him in the . . . you-know-what?”
“No, but I kicked him in the shin. I was wearing my ankle boots, so I caused him some pain. I wish I’d worn my steel-toed work boots, though. I could’ve really done some damage.”
“The ankle boots I talked you into buying?” she said, brightening. “So I sort of helped you out, right?”
“Nice try, Lizzie,” Jane said.
Lizzie’s smile fell. “They all agree it’s my fault.” She still held on to my waist, but she was so petite that her arm barely fit across my back. “And they’re right. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“So you’ll stop setting us up on blind dates?” I said, teasing her as I took my place at the table.
Her mouth snapped closed and she glanced around at each of us.
“Oh, Lizzie,” Jane said, shaking her head. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I just want you all to be happy,” she said in her own defense.
“Let’s change the subject,” I suggested brightly, and grabbed the teapot. I poured hot tea into my cup and then added a dollop of milk, as Emily had instructed me on numerous occasions.
“Don’t listen to those ninnies who insist on milk first, then tea,” she liked to say.
On the walls of the tea shop she’d hung colorful frames with prettily printed instructions on everything having to do with tea. How one held one’s cup, for instance, and the proper way one stirred the hot liquid with one’s spoon. Placed prominently in the center of the wall was the etiquette of adding milk to tea, along with the reasons why the rules had changed from the days when the way you added milk to your tea could determine your very status in society.
Back in the olden days, the teacups were of such poor quality that they were liable to crack when hot tea was poured into them. Therefore, milk was added first. These days, the quality of the cups was no longer an issue.
Additionally, there were so many types of tea on the market today that it was important to look at the tea in the cup to determine how dark and strong it was. Only then could you gauge the proper amount of milk to add in order to suit your own taste.
Emily, despite her delicate looks and kindhearted smile, was a hardheaded Scotswoman through and through. She was very strict about such things, and there was no way I would ever argue with her. The same couldn’t be said for some of her other customers, though. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that wars had been fought over this very sticky issue.
I took my first sip and sighed with pleasure. It wasn’t coffee, but it was strong and good and I was happy to be here with my closest friends. I set the empty teapot at the side of the table. “What’s going on with the rest of you? Marigold? How are you?”
“I’m dandy. Thanks,” Marigold said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “We’re more worried about you, though, so don’t try to wiggle off the topic.”
I exchanged glances with the other girls. Marigold had a natural reserve that made her opinions seem all the more vital since she only voiced them occasionally. She was close to my age of thirty, but she hadn’t grown up around here. She had been raised in rural Pennsylvania in an Amish community. When she was twenty, she left her family and quit the life to join her free-spirited aunt Daisy out here in Lighthouse Cove.
The first thing Daisy had done to honor her niece’s courageous decision was to suggest that she change her staid Amish name of Mary to the more quirky and pretty name of Marigold. Together they owned the beautiful Crafts and Quilts shop a few doors down on the square. Many of the exquisite goods in the shop were handmade by Marigold’s Amish family and friends back home in Pennsylvania. It was her way of staying in touch and supporting her people, even though she had eschewed their lifestyle.
Today she wore an artsy sweater made of chunky, colorful strands of different types of yarn and fabric. Her long, thick strawberry blond hair was woven into a braid straight down her back and tied with a bit of filmy blue ribbon. She sold the sweaters and fabrics and ribbons in her shop, along with other types of clothing and quilts, and all sorts of carved wooden toys, boxes, and knickknacks. Wearing her own inventory was the best advertisement she could make.
“Tell us what happened,” Marigold urged.
“All right, all right,” I said with a sigh, and rubbed my stomach. “I’ll tell you everything once I’ve had something to eat.”
“Perfect timing,” Emily said, carrying a heavily laden tray to our table. She unloaded a fresh pot of tea and a three-tiered tray of yummy-looking miniature pastries and sandwiches.
“Can you join us?” I asked.
She picked up the empty teapot and glanced toward the doorway that led to the main tearoom. “Julia’s working today, so I might manage to pop in and out.”
“Good.”
“Relax and enjoy,” she urged, patting my arm. “I’ll be back.”
“Thanks, Emily.” I smiled as she walked back into the main room. She was 100 percent Scotswoman, and yet to look around her shop, you would think she was a raving royalist. The shelves near the front of the store were filled with all sorts of interesting Scottish items, such as haggis in a can and spiced eggs. But scattered throughout the charming rooms were also plenty of English delicacies along with displays of English bone-china cups and dishes that sported pictures of the queen, Prince William and his duchess, and the royal grandbaby. A flat-screen TV monitor in the corner of the main room silently screened BBC News all day long.
Emily had arrived in Lighthouse Cove fifteen years ago with her boyfriend, an American fisherman who had gone into business with one of our local fishermen. Her boyfriend died in a tragic boating accident a few years later, just days before Emily was scheduled to open her tea shop.
Her friends were afraid that his untimely death would cause her to leave and go back to Scotland. But the tea shop had sustained her through her bereavement and now she had a thriving business and a good life here.
I had consumed three little triangular sandwiches, two tiny almond scones, and my fourth pastry (in my defense, they were all teensy) when Jane turned to me. “You’ve eaten enough, so take a breath and tell us what happened.”
“I can talk and eat,” I muttered, slightly miffed that she’d called me out for stuffing my face. With a sigh, I pushed my plate away and told them everything about my evening with Jerry. Starting with the friendly dinner, I described the nice walk afterward on the beach and ended with details of Jerry’s awkward assault. As an afterthought I mentioned the ridiculous applause coming from the looky-loos standing on the pier. When I was finished, the girls were silent.
I took the opportunity to pop another mini cheese Danish into my mouth.
Jane looked grief stricken. “He could’ve hurt you badly. You’re lucky you didn’t end up in the hospital.”
I agreed, but didn’t say it out loud for fear of alarming Lizzie any more than she already had been. “I’m fine now. I should’ve gone to the police last night and I still intend to, but—”
“You must,” Lizzie insisted. “I’ll go with you.”
I gazed around the table. “I really appreciate you all being here for me.”
“We love you,” Marigold said fervently, then frowned. “I would’ve hugged you earlier, but you’ve clearly been out jogging. So, you know, there’s sweat.”
“Yeah, that’s my excuse, too,” Jane said, laughing. “Lizzie had no choice. She was forced to hug you because she’s guilt ridden.”
“I am!” Lizzie wailed, then made a show of brushing off her clothing. “But she really does work up a sweat.”
Everyone laughed, including me. Emily came back to pour more tea and sit for a few minutes. I gave her a brief recap of what had happened the night before.
There was a break and Marigold spoke. “I know another woman who went out with that man.”
We all stared at her.
“Well?” I said. “What happened?”
She pressed her lips together. “I don’t believe it went smoothly.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lizzie said.
Marigold blinked at her. “You never asked.”
“Do we know her?” I asked.
“No. She visits twice a year to shop and go wine tasting.”
I leaned forward. “I would really like to talk to her.”
“I don’t know her too well,” Marigold explained, “but she’s a good customer. She comes in early autumn and late spring every year and always orders a new quilt. The last time she was in the store, she seemed more nervous than I’ve ever seen her. I asked if she was all right and she ignored the question, but then asked me if I knew someone named Jerry Saxton. I told her I’d never heard of him, so she didn’t go into much detail, and I didn’t want to pry.”
No, Marigold wouldn’t pry, I thought. But I wished she had, just a little.
“I was concerned,” she continued, “because she wouldn’t take off her dark glasses. I could see a bruise on the side of her face and she looked terribly pale and downcast. At the time I considered going to the police, but then I must’ve gotten busy and forgot all about it.”
Marigold sipped her tea and glanced around the table. “To be honest, her behavior and the bruise might have nothing to do with Jerry, but given Shannon’s experience, I thought I ought to mention it.”
We all contemplated that silently for a few minutes, and a short while later the party broke up. It was just as well, because Marigold’s story had depressed us all.
I spent the rest of the day avoiding people while trying to forget the blind date from hell. I did some touch-up sanding at Jane’s place, then ran by two of my construction sites to check on the progress. At both stops, I was encouraged to hear my guys’ outrage over the ugly incident on the beach. I assured them all that I was fine and that yes, I’d delivered a good, swift kick to Jerry Saxton, just as they’d all instructed me to do at one time or another.
Apparently the rumor mill had already spread the news that I had kicked Jerry exactly where my neighbor Jesse had bet I would. I didn’t have the heart to mention to the guys that my kick had missed its mark by a few important inches. It would’ve disappointed them.
On the way home, I stopped at the bank to get some money. I was a silent partner in several of my friends’ businesses and had promised to drop off some cash to one of them to expand the holiday inventory. I didn’t like leaving a paper trail—which sounded shifty but really wasn’t—so I always gave them the dollars instead of writing a check.
While I was waiting in line, a well-dressed, friendly-looking woman with a short cap of blond hair walked up to me. “You’re Shannon Hammer, aren’t you?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Penelope Wells, the bank’s new loan agent. But call me Penny, please.”
“Nice to meet you, Penny.” I hesitated, then said, “I’m just here to withdraw some cash.”
She grinned. “I know you’re not here to see me. I just wanted to introduce myself because I’m looking for a contractor to renovate the kitchen in the house I just bought. You were highly recommended by several people.”
I beamed at her. “That’s so nice to hear.” We arranged to meet at her house the following day around noon. After exchanging business cards, we shook hands and she went back to her office.